


Mea Culpa

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Matt goes to church, and I listened to Hellfire while writing this, which should explain a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6944224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s still not a church goer, not in the sense that he turns up every Sunday in his best suit. But he finds the relative solace of the church comforting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mea Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this piece a couple of days before the season 2 premiere, and I was surprised at how well it actually fits in with the season 2 story arc.

_Confiter Deo omnipotenti, beatæ Mariæ semper Virgini_

Matt vaguely remembered what St. Patrick’s cathedral looked like, having gone there with his father before the accident. They weren’t strict catholics, not like his grandmother, but every now and then, his father would wake him up at the crack of dawn, they’d dress in their Sunday best and walk to the cathedral to attend mass. The exterior with its sharp spires seemed imposing to him as a child, and he told himself it had to be to keep evil out, that the saints and apostles carved onto the door were guardians that protected the congregation. Inside was safe, an enormous room where whispers echoed in the dusky light while they listened to the priest lead mass, blessing them and absolving them.

He’s still not a church goer, not in the sense that he turns up every Sunday in his best suit. But he finds the relative solace of the church comforting. He can rarely go to mass because of what he does, but sometimes he visits in the middle of the day, foregoing lunch. Something lives in the church, he can’t explain it in any other way. While others would only hear silence, he hears everything. Low creaks in the walls, the caress of the wind, the ghost of prayers whispered to the God that lives in all of them. Stepping inside the doors always calms him, centers his thoughts as he walks down the center aisle before bowing and signing the cross.

_Beato Michaeli Archangelo sanctis Apostoli omnibus Sanctis_

His bones ache dully, protesting against the hard pews. Matt welcomes the pain, it’s a small penance for what he does. It’s getting harder and harder to show restraint. Claire was right; there will always be someone out there, someone who needs to be brought to justice. It didn’t stop with Fisk. He cut the head off the snake, but it didn’t bring the monster down. It spawned a wave of petty criminals and thugs, crawling out of the darkness. He can’t not stay away. He promised he would protect the city, its people.

But some nights, it’s hard. Some nights, he feels like there is someone else out there, someone with him in his suit. It’s the nights when his knuckles bruise through the protective gloves, his muscles refuse to relax against the silk sheets and his mind can’t find peace. It’s the nights when the saving almost comes second, when he just needs to hurt someone. He is not proud of it, always hastening to lock away the suit, his fingers tripping over the locks. The sense of relief doesn’t quite reach him, like he isn’t done fighting, because in that locker, hidden beneath his father’s boxing robe, the enemy still waits.

_Et vos, fratres, et tibi, pater_

“Forgive me, Father…”

The words are starting to lose their meaning. How much forgiveness can one man be granted? He isn’t sure that the good he does with Foggy and Karen at the firm could ever outweigh the pain he inflicts at night. Things with Foggy have been… off, since his friend found out. He doesn’t inquire about the dark circles under Matt’s eyes, doesn’t comment on the off days when he comes in with inexplicable injuries. Karen still thinks he is the worst klutz in the city.

He misses Claire. There’s no getting away from it. He is reluctant to talk to Foggy about what he does as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He is not even sure if his friendship with Foggy has even recovered enough for such a conversation. Claire always knew what he was, and he never made excuses for what he has to do to keep the city safe. Claire had been his sole confidante, his night nurse, a fixed point in his life.

And now he had lost her.

_Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere_

It’s hard not to blame himself. He is the one at the center of this chaos.

He fell into Claire’s dumpster, pulled her into the darkness and she got hurt. He pushed her away, the only person who shared his secret and still kissed him like he was the opposite of his nature. Her absence both calmed and agitated him. She should stay away. He had done nothing but hurt her, the farther away she went, the better. But the fact that she was gone, out of his reach, worried him. Darkness had a way of spreading, and not knowing if she was safe was driving him to the very edge of his sanity.

Foggy knows, and it has created a rift between them. It’s this revelation that he contemplates the most. How different would his life be if only he had told Foggy earlier? After the fight with Nobu? At Landeman & Zach? At Columbia? If circumstances had not forced his hand, how long could he have kept the secret? Matt is glad that his best friend knows, but it’s impossible to miss the change in atmosphere when he walks into the office with visible injuries, the way Foggy’s jokes become just a tad sharper when the papers mention Daredevil.

_Mea culpa, mea culpa_

“It’s been… a while since my last confession,” he admits to the empty room, his whispers carrying in the cathedral’s acoustics.

It’s been more than a while, he’s not even sure when last he went to church. He doesn’t really count the latte shared with Father Lantom, or their short talks on the bench outside. Other matters have kept him preoccupied, and Matt hates the way the words wrap so easily around his tongue. He likes the exact nature of his work, proving their clients innocent beyond any reasonable doubt. It’s meticulous work, sorting through every minute detail of the case, anticipating opposing counsel’s argument, looking for weaknesses in the armor they’re building.

“I’m trying to do the right thing,” Matt continues to the room, then stops to listen.

No one here save for the undefinable something that resides in the cathedral.

“Sometimes I wonder how long I will be able to… do what I do. How long I can be forgiven. How long I can forgive myself. I try, I-”

He can’t even make it through a confession without doubting himself, without chastising himself for engaging in half-lies and trying to justify his actions. It’s hard to see black and white when you’ve lived in the muddled grey that is the wasteland he operates in. His life is a mess of broken promises and making up for them. Getting a law degree. Still ending up fighting. Putting people in danger. Removing the danger. Causing an even more dangerous element to present itself. It never ends. If he continues fighting, there will always be another adversary, another threat. If he quits, if he can quit, there will still be danger, only no one there to take care of it.

However he twists and turns the situation, he cannot escape the glaring truth.

_Mea maxima culpa_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always welcome!


End file.
